


it smells like dust and moonlight

by boobearwantshishazza



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-02 08:37:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5241833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boobearwantshishazza/pseuds/boobearwantshishazza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>HARRY PUTS LOUIS' COLOGONE ON HIS PILLOWS AND SEWS HIS OLD SWEATERS WHEN THEY TEAR AND BUYS HIS FAVORITE TEA SO THE FLAT SMELLS LIKE HIM AND GOD HE MISSES HIM SO MUCH BUT NO MATTER HOW HARD HE TRIES THE DUST WON'T STOP COLLECTING AND THE MEMORIES WON'T STOP FADING AND ALL HE'S LEFT WITH IS THE FUCKING MOON AND HE HOWLS LIKE A DAMN WOLF ALL ALONE SEPARATED FROM THE PEOPLE HE LOVES AND THE PEOPLE WHO LOVE HIM</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. SUNDAYS

Sundays were dedicated to nothingness. It was the only day Louis could sleep in past six a.m. and not have to rush and worry about falling behind on his steady climb to a promotion at work. It was not on Sundays that he would stumble through the rooms that were much too large for his liking. They echoed loneliness in the whispers of wind on weeknights. However, on Sundays, oh these rooms were filled with spilled sunlight from the windows that spanned across a wall of each room.

His mother had tried to explain to him that New York was only dirty streets and dirty souls. She begged him to stay with her across the Atlantic Ocean, in England. Where it was “safe and full of grand people and hot tea and none of that bitter coffee those Americans fork their money over for.” He kindly rejected her offer and distanced himself from his past as much as possible. On Sundays he did not even think about his mum and his family. They took up so much space in his mind and in his heart every other day that he devoted this specific day to only thoughts of the future.

He once read somewhere that human beings spend all their time planning for the future. Thinking about what they are going to do next, read next, listen to next, see next, and smell next. What they are doing the next day and the day after that and their plans for the weekend and Spring break. No one realizes death could come at any moment. The plans they have made would remain unfulfilled.

On Sundays he gives himself the leisure of envisioning a promising future for himself. One where his mother remembered his birthday without someone reminding her she has a son. One where strangers did not glare at him on the subway because his tie was crooked or he had granola bar crumbs strewn across his cheek. One where he could climb to his roof and scream without worrying that he might jump off without a second thought, because someone would be right beside him, yelling in harmony. They would hug him from behind and kiss his temple and wipe his tears and tell him it will be okay and that they love him. One where he did not hate himself so god damn much. One where he could wear short-sleeves in the summer like a normal person. One where Chardonnay white wine was not his best friend. One where he was happy and loved. One not unlike his past.

Sundays were meant for reflection and new beginnings as each week began. But by the time the evening sun was hanging low in the sky, he feels dejected. His only sense of comfort is the gray jumper that droops low across his chest and the small cup of tea (he admits that his mother was right, coffee is nothing more than bitter chemicals compared to the sweet herbal tea he so dearly misses) that he never drinks from, only continuously reheats to keep his hands warm. He watches the shadows move across the avenues and the hordes of people that ran up and down the sidewalks alongside cars on streets. They fascinate him.

He wondered how so many people had so much to do. How many friends did it take to fill calendars with events? How many hours must they work to purchase such expensive clothing? How much confidence did it take to fill a person up enough to last a lifetime? Questions course through him, but the only one to ask them to is himself. And what good was it to ask a question you could answer.

Most would wrinkle their noses at apartments that had walls made up completely of windows. No privacy and what not, but he found it deliriously anxiety provoking to have to hide in your home. Its good practice, he thought, I am already hiding in my own skin.

Another perk of having a glass foundation is the constellations at night. He was told that the glass was specifically created to withstand most of nature’s terrors, but sometimes he likes to imagine catching a shooting star. As a child, he cupped fireflies in the palms of his hands. When he tried to peek at the blinking bug, it flew out of his grasp. He knew that if he attempted to catch a star it would only burn a hole through his hand and continue on its path. He would be left with a smoking hand and heaviness cradled in his ribcage, another adventure destined for failure.

His bed was large enough to fit three or four people and yet he curls up into himself in the corner near the door. He contemplates buying a kitten to keep him company. He even visits the animal shelter multiple times. But cats trigger memories that he tries to submerge deep in his mind. However, it seems, he always falls asleep with the sound of purring in his ears and the warm presence of someone behind him. HIs shoulder blades pressing into their chest and a small kitten bundled in his hands. He cannot figure out who he was imagining himself with. He cannot see their face. That is all he thought about before he fell asleep on Sunday nights. Cats and cuddles.  
 


	2. MONDAYS (ACTUALLY, A MONDAY IN PARTICULAR)

Mondays are almost always flooded through with rain. Coincidence or not, Louis ends up damp and moody. He does not bother with a lunch break at work. If he does not stop for lunch (he not only lost weight) he is given permission to leave an hour early.

It is on this specific Monday, the ninth of April, that he truly felt important for the first time in three years.

He is walking home from work, which he rarely ever did, with his hands in his pockets. He feels stiff and uncomfortable in his black suit and tie. He hooks his finger in between his tie and his collar and tugs his tie down his neck. He walks quickly in the downpour of rain. Strangers crowd the sidewalk. Some of them are talking to each other or into the phone and the others stride with umbrellas. He suddenly stops walking. Irritated, people push past him. He hangs his hand in shame and as he does, a small shadow leaps across the sidewalk and pauses at his black loafers. It peers up at him with its large, brown eyes and cocks its head to side. He attempts to choke back a painful sob but it only hitches his breath and he digs his teeth into his bottom lip to try and stop the tears. He fails to do so and something inside him collapses and before he knows it, he is on his knees with wet cheeks and a small kitten cradled in his hands against his chest. He smiles sadly and looks down to see it shivering and yet still trying to comfort him. He stands up slowly and takes off his jacket to wrap it up carefully and carry it to his apartment. He weaves in and out of the crowd until he arrives at the base of the building. He takes the stairs by two all the way to the top floor where his flat awaits.

The kitten is damp and yet it purrs at his kind gesture. He sets it down in his foyer and waits for it to trample off to explore. Instead, it sits down on the toe of his right shoe. He lifts it up into the crook of his elbow and rocks it slowly. He uses the toe of his right foot to push down on the heel of left shoe until it pops off and he slides it all the way off. He does the same thing with his left shoe.

He mindlessly wanders around his blindingly plain apartment. “One day, you and I will paint these walls a bright blue. As blue as the sky on a day it doesn’t rain and the smog doesn’t block our view.” He coos into its small ears and points to the sitting room walls.

It is the first time he has spoken to someone (other than thanking the cashier for his change and wishing his co-workers a good holiday) since he stopped bringing women home at night and then awkwardly waking up to make them pancakes even when every time they each kindly refused them and left quickly. He remembers drowning his hangover in maple syrup and wondering if he only looked beautiful in fluorescent lighting or when the lights were off. Or maybe even then, he was only bearable.

It took forty-two rejections for him to finally give up burying his sorrow into the bodies of plastic women who used him as elastic to rebound into a better state of mind.

He bought ten journals, 150 pages each, and five expensive wooden pens. He realized his life was so messed up that he could probably use that as inspiration for a novel of sorts. He has never been into writing that much. He used to love to read books and to memorize poetry. But he has not really thought about creating plots and characters himself. He always thought authors were the best people in the world and the worst. They structured alternate universes with gripping plots and characters that he inevitably fell in love with. And then they pulled it out from beneath him. The story ended (almost always on a happy note). The alternate universe ceased to exist and the characters dissolved from his memory. No matter how hard he tried, he could never regenerate that same exhilarating excitement he felt as he sat at the edge of his seat eagerly flipping the pages. For as long as he can remember, he blamed the writer for taking his happiness away from him. But now? Now, he knew it was his fault as the reader, for not savoring each sentence as though he would never read again.

So this was it, he wanted to heave his overwhelming amount of sadness (though sad is terrible word, any form of it really, and he swears he would never use it in his novel) onto the chests of his readers because he knew it would make him feel better and they would quickly forget about the young man who tore holes in his shirts hoping to stop his heart from swelling and cracking his ribcage.

“Constellations and shooting stars.” He murmurs and nods at the walls of his bedroom. He eases down on to the silky comforter and the kitten leaps out of his grasp and curls up onto one of his pillows. He stands up and undresses himself as he stares out the window. He takes everything but his boxers off and crawls into bed with the small ball of fur beside him. It is only five till six o’clock but he is already exhausted. He sprawls across his bed and the cat pounces onto his stomach and finds itself comfortable there. He scratches between its ears and it purrs in appreciation. “Goodnight, Little Meow.” He smiles to himself at the dumb name. Finally he has a sense of importance, this little kitty needs him to survive. He will do everything in his power to help it.


	3. TUESDAY, TWO WEEKS LATER

Little Meow follows Louis around his apartment everywhere and whines when he has to leave for work in the morning.

For the first few days, she waited at the door for all eight hours until he returned. Until she made herself comfortable on the baby blue, velvet, settee loveseat in the sitting room that faced the window. She basked in the warmth of the sun and kept herself busy by watching the cars run up and down the boulevards. Louis adores her and treats her with great care. He does his best to come home on time each day so that they can watch re-runs of Friends and Seinfeld.

On this specific Tuesday, two weeks after finding his new companion, Louis opens his apartment door in time to hear his home phone buzz and then a voicemail echo. “Hey, Louis! (Giggling). Um, this is Liam. Zayn and I are in the area and so- Zayn keep your hands to yourself- we will be over at uh 6:30 for like dinner I guess… okay bye! (More Giggling)”

He slides his cell phone from out his back pocket. It is already half past five. Shit.

He runs to his kitchen and sorts through his cabinets and refrigerator. Nothing. There is only cat food and that does not sound very appetizing. He has not been very hungry lately. He slowly lifts up his shirt to reveal is flat stomach. His ribcage protrudes and his hipbones are evident. Shit, shit, shit. Liam is going to be so pissed.

When they were in college together, they did everything together. Some people thought they were a couple and both of them had to admit, feeding each other was pretty couple-y. But Liam was like an older brother to him. He always made sure Louis was eating and sleeping and working and happy. Right now he is only doing two of the four. He pushes the cluttering thoughts to the back of his mind and slides into his slippers.

He grabs his keys from off the hook by his front door. He flings the door open and thunders down the steps and knocks on the first apartment door he saw. A disheveled, old man opens it, squints, then shuts it before Louis can say anything.

Louis sighs and knocks on the next one. A young girl who is about half his height smiles up at him.

“Mommy! Someone’s at the door.” She tucks strands of black curls behind her ears. “I’m Scarlet.” She sticks her small hand out. can’t help but grin and envelope her hand in his.

“I’m Louis.”

“Scarlet, you shouldn’t open the door for strangers.” Her mother comes and scoops her up.

“But he’s very nice.” Scarlet whines. Her mom sighs and smiles.

“How may I help you?” She asks Louis.

“Um, I was wondering if- I have these friends coming over and- can I maybe borrow some- Can you lend me some chicken and pasta because I don’t have any food in my house and they’ll be here soon.” His cheeks flush and he averts his gaze to the intricate pattern on Scarlet’s dress.

“Of course! Come on in. Louis, right?” He nods. “Would you rather have penne or spaghetti?” She hands him the chicken, and then the penne after he pointed to the box.

“Thank you so much.” He says over his shoulder as he closes the door behind him.

“Bye Louis! Come again soon!” He hears as he sprints up the stairs.

He has forty-eight minutes to complete a worthy dinner. He throws on his apron, once he returns to his own apartment. It reads, “Kiss the Chef” in pink bubble lettering. He puts the chicken in his fridge and the pasta on the granite counter. He pulls a jar of Alfredo sauce out of a cabinet, thankful, for the expiration dates in the far future.

 

* * *

A knock echoes through the entryway at 6:32 and Louis brushes the hair out of his face as he opens the door.

“Louis!” Liam pulls him into a tight embrace and they sway slightly. “I’ve missed you, mate.”

“I’ve missed you too, Liam.” Louis grins into his friend’s shoulder. Zayn fakes a pout and stretches out his arms, making grabby hands. The two boys chuckle and they all hug.

Louis is the first to pull away and he leads them on a tour of his (expensive, though he remains modest about it) apartment. Liam and Zayn hold hands the whole time and “ooo” and “ahh” at things they find especially astonishing. On the wall lining the staircase, Louis had hung up one of Zayn’s masterpieces. It is a painting of a miserable girl fading into the blurring lights of New York City. (Zayn used Louis as inspiration but didn’t tell him that). Beside it, there is a photograph that Louis had taken during the small slot in time when he felt like he could do anything and be anyone. Even he has to admit, he was incredibly hipster with his beanies, =and collection of tatoos. He was charismatic and his smile brought grins to everyone he met. Unfortunately, it was short-lived and he soon turned back to caressing the necks of alcohol bottles instead of warming his hands with the bodies of Starbucks cups.

When the trio reaches Louis' bedroom, they stop in their tracks. It is the only customized room. His walls are still plain white but there are enough decoration strewn around to distract from that. His comforter is based off the Van Gogh painting labeled “Starry Night.” The pillows are a matching navy blue. At night, there are glow-in-the-dark constellations on the ceiling that could be turned on and off, depending on the clarity of the actual sky. There are photos tacked cork board on the walls. Many are his photography but some are random announcements for poetry nights or writers clubs that he never got around to going to. There are a few pictures of the three of them when they talked each other into making silly faces in the small photo booth at the mall. He never told them, but his stomach always wrung when they kissed each other with so much fiery passion, it burned him. He plastered an artificial smile (in the pictures) but if they looked close enough, they could see the corners of his lips turned down in the slightest. Liam and Zayn walk around the room with their hands thrown across each other’s waists as if even the thought of being separated was unbearable and they speak in hushed tones as if they were an old couple at a museum. They stop every other step to place a chaste kiss upon their lips.

“Louis… this is absolutely beautiful.” Liam’s face shines bright with pride and his boyfriend looks over with fond so strong, Louis feels it tighten a grip on his own emotions.

“Um… thanks. So, are you guys ready for dinner or...” He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. They nod eagerly and pat their stomachs.

“What have you whipped up for us tonight, Chef Tommo?” Liam quirks an eyebrow and nudges his best mate as they trail after him into the dining room. Louis grins and a blush crept up his neck.

“Uh, nothing special, just some chicken alfredo.” He watches as Zayn pulls the chair out for his boyfriend and sighs in the longing for that to be him. Liam lights up and claps excitedly.

“Your famous chicken alfredo?” Louis nods sheepishly and sets them all a plate full of it. Liam notices Louis' shrinking figure. “Louis? When was the last time you ate?” His frown forms tight creases in his forehead. Louis sighs and shifts from foot to foot.

“Oh. Um, I don’t know, Thursday maybe?” He attempts to swallow the large lump that forms in his throat.

“What? What did you have?”

“Liam-”

“Answer me.” Louis cringes at his harsh tone.

“A granola bar.”

“Louis… you’ve been living off of a granola bar for six days. That’s not healthy maybe I should move in to take care of you. You obviously-”

“Wine or water?” He offers and Liam sighs from the interruption. Zayn and Liam both choose the water. He should not be surprised; of course Zayn would not choose wine. It is not because he favors water; no, it is because Liam did. Zayn was the one who sat alongside Louis on the nights he got so wasted the cars outside his window resembled multicolored crayons. Zayn is so far gone for Liam and Louis should’ve known the minute he caught him drawing patterns on his neck, with his tongue.

“So we have some ground breaking news.” Liam begins, shifting the subject. “Zayn and I,” he looks at his boyfriend who reaches over to squeeze his hand in reassurance, “are getting married.” Louis' gaze drifts down to Liam’s left hand and how could he have missed the silver band around his ring finger.

“That lovely! I’m so happy for you two.” He truly is he just does not understand why they could not have just told him this over the phone. Instead of forcing him to make dinner for three when he rarely eats for one. He guesses this kind of information is the face-to-face type. But they could have just met at the little café on the corner.

He must be furrowing his eyebrows are showing his confusion in some other evident type because Zayn speaks up, “Louis? Are you alright with this?” He is quickly snapped back into the present conversation and replies.

“Hmm? Oh yeah of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” The newly engaged couple share uneasy looks.

“Well, you know, I didn’t know if you would be okay with all of this lovey-dovey stuff around you.” Liam pauses before he continues to speak on the sore topic. “I didn’t know if you would still be getting over-” Louis slams his wineglass on the table.

“Well excuuuuuuse me, Liam. I didn’t know my well being actually mattered to you. Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you thought it was okay to snog in front of me. I am fine thank you very much.” Okay so his words might’ve been a bit slurred but he was able to get out most of what he wanted to say. They stare in shock and he gulps down the last of his wine as he glares at them intensely.

“You know what? You should leave. Get out. Now!” He stands up so quickly his chair tips back and hits the ground with a crash. He points towards the door. His lips are swollen from biting them so much and his hair is untidy from running his hands through it. If someone was to screenshot this moment and take it out of context, he would most likely be taken to a mental hospital.

They quietly thank him for the meal and leave with a slam of the door. Louis crumples to the ground and drops his head into his hands. He repeatedly accuses himself of always ruining things.

He bounces up and shoves the other chair out his way. He grabs his plate and throws it against the ground and watches the porcelain skid. He picks up the other two boys’ and does the same. He feels maliciously anxiety-provoked and begins to shatter everything within his reach. By the time he is out of items to hurl, his chest is heaving up and down and broken shards surround him. He withstands the suicidal tendencies that crawl from out his mind and infests what lies behind the bars of his rib cage.

Forcing himself to leave the scene, he flees to his bedroom. He flops face down on his bed. Little Meow butts her head into his side when he groans into his pillow. They cuddle up together to rid the loneliness that hangs in the room. Outside the windows, the noise of busy lives rise to his ears. Cars honk at each other and pedestrians shout for taxis. A soft rainfall begins but the sounds only get louder. Everyone wants to be heard over the quiet thunder. Everyone wants to be seen and heard in New York City. That is the whole point of moving out to the “concrete jungle.” He wanted to change his mind state.

He thought that maybe if he surrounded himself with these characteristics they would rub off on him. All they did was make him feel like a stranger in his own home. So he ostracized himself and now he doesn’t have anyone to turn to. A mind was meant to be a sanctuary. His mind had been inhabited by thoughts that only the devil himself could’ve crafted. It wasn’t a gradual happening. He just woke up one morning and it was as if a switch had flipped inside his head. There was no point for anything anymore. It was as though before, the world had color and meaning, and then after, there was only gray and life had no value. He prayed for the sake of his sanity that he would get better. It wasn’t only affecting him. It was like the demons in his head reached out and lightly clawed at the throats of his loved ones. They wanted everyone to leave him so he would envelop into himself and his soul would be fed to them. Maybe that’s why he didn’t have him anymore but he knew the answer wasn’t that simple.

Of course this attributed to the leaving however it wasn’t the only thing that sent him out the door. There was the girl. The girl that smelled like strawberry lip-gloss and sugar cubes. The girl that carried an unlit cigarette because “it will scare away the ones that aren’t worth my time” but honestly was worried she was already too girly and adorable and so she needed something to “toughen” her up. (Her mother restricted her from getting piercing anywhere except her ears and inking her skin). The girl that dyed her hair every two months to distract from the small baby fat on her abdomen that she so desperately tried to rid. The girl that had a beautiful figure equipped with soft curves at every angle. The girl that had a bathroom filled to the brim with makeup to cover up blemishes and to enhance her facial features. The girl that had bags under her eyes from staying up late to run around her neighborhood to slim herself down. The girl that spent weekends in the houses of boys who didn’t bother to learn her name for they parted on Sunday morning and never met again. The girl that lived down the hall from him while he grew up. The girl that loved and supported him before he even began doubting himself and then after as well. His sister, Georgia. He thought very highly of her no matter what. He didn’t think much of the way she stared at him and the way he stared back. He simply believed they were good friends. He had no way of knowing his boyfriend was secretly dating his sister behind his back.

Louis was in love with him. It was his first real sincere experience with love. He handed over his body and his soul to this boy who lost interest in him after two months. Louis did everything he could to make James love him. He noticed he was losing the boy he was in fucking love with. He tried giving up his innocence in more ways than one and yet to no avail. He tried being a better partner by showing up with daises in the rain. Nothing seemed to work. It was six days before their three-month anniversary when he knocked on his sister’s door.

James opened it with disheveled hair and puffy lips in only his trousers. “James?” Louis' whisper floated through the air. His boyfriend sighed and scratched his scalp.

“Look, kid-” James began.

“Kid? Is that all I am? A stupid kid? A helpless, annoying, good-for-nothing kid. I thought I meant something to you, James.” He quieted down by the end of his short rant.

“You thought wrong, okay? I only liked you for a month or so. You are nothing compared to your sister.” Louis peeked behind the glaring figure in the door frame to see his sister’s reaction. She was picking at the bed of her nails, bored. She always stuck up for him and here she was impatiently waiting for her boy toy to get back into bed with her. He sniffled and attempted to stop his eyes from watering. A few tears escaped and after that it was a full on hurricane. “Now you’re crying?” James groaned frustrated. “I-I… forget it. Goodbye. We’re over.”

Louis trailed back to his room and shut the door softly. He star-fished across his bed and watched the trees outside his window dance in shadows upon his ceiling. After wallowing in self-pity for hours on end, he reached under his bed for a duffel bags. He stood up and stretched. His alarm clock blinked 2:17 am and he opened the window. He slipped out lucky to have the roof to the back porch right outside. He climbed down and grabbed his bicycle from the porch. He straddled the leather seat and pushed off the grass and pedaled around his house. He pedaled towards his destination with such determination he didn’t feel the strain in his calves until he arrived. He hopped off and took the bag off his back. He unzipped it and pulled out a can of black spray paint. He shook it excessively and started his masterpiece. “Question everything and everyone; there is never complete honesty in our society.” It was then that he decided he was moving to the Big Apple to pursue his dream of finding his soul mate. There were millions of people; one of them must be his. As cliché as that may sound, that was his only true goal in life to meet someone who would love him just the way he is (and maybe make a mosaic out of his broken pieces).


End file.
